The Other Minister
by 0902FRIENDs
Summary: The new PM sits in her office alone in the middle of the night, and two strange men visits. What is going on? An entire new world of ideas wash over the PM as she struggle to keep up with them. Can be interpreted as political satire, but it's written purely for fun.


**Unofficial A/N: This is written for what's been happening these past few weeks, and purely for entertaining purposes. I don't own any characters, or anything else. Sequences possible.**

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The Right Honourable Prime Minister sat at her desk, alone in solitude. It was approaching midnight, and she had just finished phoning the other heads of states from France and Germany, asking for more time before the dreading negotiations. It had been a warm day, almost too hot, for such an eventful day for the Minister, yet as the day approached its end, a few drizzles had brought in some cool air, contributing a more calming tone in her solitude. The Minister, who had been organising her folders to end her very first day on the job, halted as she discovered a previously unread message:

 _The Minister of State of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, alongside the Under Secretary of the Home Office requests an urgent meeting with the Right Honourable Prime Minister at midnight, Wed, 13 July, 2016._

What had the Under Secretary got to say to request an urgent meeting with her at _this_ hour, pondered the Prime Minister. After all, she had only left her post as the Home Minister the day before. Unless… Unless something dire had happened over the past few hours, like a terrorist massacre in her backyard that she wasn't aware of? The Prime Minister gave a contemptuous laugh at the thought: she would have known if someone had set Downing Street on fire, and anything else could wait till the morning.

Despite all her reluctance, however, the Minister decided to take the urgent appointment. She felt as if she was compelled to show the commitment of her new government, that no matter how late it was, troubles and problems would be dealt with at the first possible moment. She sighed, and phoned the demanding Offices.

It was five minutes till midnight, and the Prime Minister scarcely had time to make both herself and her desk look presentable. She chose to work on the latter. By the time she had stacked all her paperwork under her desk, put away scattered pens and pencils, and re-organised her folder for take-home work, the expected knock was heard from the door. The Minister looked up, it was precisely midnight.

"Come in," she called, standing up from her chair.

The door opened, yet the persons coming in were not who she was expecting. Instead of her familiar colleagues, she now faced two strangers, both men, standing at the threshold. One of them wore round-rimmed glasses, his messy mop of black hair gave the impression of him just rolling out of the bed five minutes ago, yet the intense expression he wore, and the exhaustion in his bottle green eyes suggested otherwise. The other one, the taller of the two, had well-combed light brown hair, with his eyes two shades lighter. Unlike his companion, the brown-haired stranger looked relaxed, and thus smart, especially in his striped shirt and navy suit. He smiled reassuringly at the Minister, and closed the door behind him in a well-mannered, classy way.

"Wh - Who are you?" The Minister asks, panic had risen now that the initial shock had worn off, "You aren't the Minister of the State, nor are you Under Secretary of the Home Office! How did you get in?"

The man with glasses had his eyes zoomed in at her, while both men reached into the pockets of their coats. For a second, the Prime Minister thought they were pulling out guns on her. But before she could scream, she saw their hands again, holding what looked like government-issued wallets.

"Don't worry, Ma'am," the brown-haired man smiled reassuringly, handing her his open wallet, "We aren't here for assassination."

"Justin Finch-Fletchley," she read outloud, "Head of Office, Public Relations Office, Foreign and Commonwealth Office - But the Minister of State -"

The other man handed his wallet, as if to shut her up. He had succeeded, and she now read, "Harry Potter, Head of Office, Auror Office, Home Office - What on earth is this about?"

She started to feel bewildered, rather than scared. Maybe the initial misunderstanding had worn off her adrenaline, maybe it was the queer behavior of those men signaled no threat on her personal safety - whatever it was, she looked at the two men angrily as if they had just played a joke on her, instead of calling for security.

"We may all want to sit down for this," said the shorter man, Potter, for the first time showing signs of relaxing.

It was clear that they were not getting out of this any time soon, so the Minister relented. She sat down, and, as she watched the two men settle down in the armchairs across her desk, prayed to God that this was nothing more than a bad joke.

How wrong she was.

"We are, indeed, sent by our superior, but not by the State Minister or the Under Secretary" said Finch-Fletchley, "We are sent by Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister of Magic, who will be joining us in two minutes' time."

"Minister of Magic? Preposterous!" exclaimed the Prime Minister. The name, however, stirred a memory, so she continued, "Shacklebolt? Hadn't he been a secretary of the Minister two decades ago? There had been much rumours about him when he first quit."

"The one and only," answered Potter somewhat impressively. He reached his hand under the table, pulled out a stick, laid his wallet-ID on her desk, and tapped it with the stick, "Here."

There must have been something seriously wrong with her eyes, thought the Minister. The letters, which had appeared to be properly printed, disappeared, and was replaced by hand-written fonts in dark purple ink, and they now read, _Harry Potter, Head of Office, Auror Office, DMLE_.

Beside him, Finch-Fletchley followed suit, and his ID turned to _Justin Finch-Fletchley, Head of Office, Muggle Liaison Office, DNMA._

"DMLE stands for Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and an Auror is roughly the equivalent of Paramilitary, Intelligence Workers and Police Detectives, all combined," explained Finch-Fletchley as the Minister struggled for words, "DNMA stands for Department of Non-magical and Muggleborn Affairs, a Muggle is a person without magical power, common folks like you, while a Muggleborn is a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents."

The Minister could do nothing but to blink at the cards, still convinced that her eyes are somehow cheating her. Across the table, the two men looked unconcerned, if not impassive.

"This must be an ill-mannered joke!" she managed to choke out.

"It is not," said Finch-Fletchley simply.

As if to prove his point, a portrait of a froglike little man, dressed in dark purple robes and wearing long silver beards rubbed his nose, coughed, and announced in a crispy, decisive voice, "Harry, Justin, send the message when you're ready. Kingsley."

Before she could stop them and interrogate them about it, Potter had turned his head to look at the Portrait, and said, "Send him through, Ulick."

"What the -"

There was a whooping voice from the fireplace. Turning her head, the Minister realised why she was so horror stricken. In front of her was undoubtedly the strangest scene in her entire life, and it seemed to stretch into infinity: a tall, dark-skinned man was turning around and around and around in her fireplace; the fire was now the colour of a poisonous green.

The man stopped turning in what felt like fifteen minutes, and stepped out of the fireplace adeptly, bringing no soot onto the carpet. Now that he was less mobile, the Prime Minister had the chance to examine the man carefully. He was Kingsley Shacklebolt all right, yet he was so different from what she remembered of him. She would never picture him in a purple robe with golden rims, and extravagant earrings full of strange marks and symbols on both of his ears.

"Ah, Miss May. How pleasant," he walked over to the desk, bent down, and kissed the back of her hand. He hadn't changed a single bit from the way he spoke, then. The calming quality of his voice definitely brought the Prime Minister the courage to speak, to demand:

"What on earth is going on, Shacklebolt? You disappeared like mist, and now, almost two decades later, you sent these two - strange - men to me, when you yourself appeared out of a fireplace? Is this some sort of joke on me by any of my oppositions? But why are you playing along with them? -"

"My dear lady, please allow me to explain," Kingsley raised a hand at her sudden outburst, and she held the accusations that were building up instantly, "This is no joke, and we would never, under my administration, treat the Muggle Prime Minister in such deprecating manner. These men are perfectly honest, and so am I," he paused, but without giving her the time for another comeback, continued, in a more procedural tone, "There are magical societies all over Britain, unknownst to the Muggle Public. We are expected to do so by the Statute of Secrecy, and a number of my employees work to conceal our identities should accidents happen. We only show ourselves in rare occasions, namely when informing a Muggleborn child and their family their true identity, hiring capable police officers to aid the Auror Office or other specialists to various other departments, and whenever a new Prime Minister - or Minister of Magic - is elected. It is also our job to work with your government to create a better world for all, and we cannot do so without informing you our existence."

"A better world for all?" Magical or not, the Prime Minister found herself abandoning that argument, and focusing on Shacklebolt's speech, "What would you do to 'make a better world for all'? What could you do?"

"We are independent from your government, which is true," said Shacklebolt, "But by making our world peaceful and respectful, we are helping you with your governance - do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Short version, please," said the Prime Minister briskly. She didn't fancy to know more than necessary.

"We keep our people happy and educated, so that they don't hate us, or you," said Shacklebolt, and it was impossible to miss the pride in his words, "We make sure that every magical child receives quality education through scholarships, bursaries, and other supports at all levels. Non-humans, the previously oppressed groups, are treated as humans, in terms of rights. Harry's Office is exceptional in obtaining Intelligence without disturbing much of people's privacy. Our court and representation body, the Wizengamot, is balanced in both gender and age, have representations from most backgrounds, and is allowing non-humans to have their say for the first time in history. You see, I make my people content, and they thrive to be better people, or elves, or centaurs, or other beings.

"Our government also promote participation in the Muggle world, while concealing our identities, of course. Children from magical families are encouraged to attend Muggle schools, and basic understanding of your world is now a requirement for school graduation and many jobs. Ignorance, as it turns out, is our biggest enemy. Now that our worlds knows yours better, the people are definitely less hostile towards you."

"Less hostile?" The Prime Minister gasped. She didn't like the fear in her voice, yet she did not like Shacklebolt's tone when he'd spoken the words, either.

"A war broke out about twenty years ago," Potter spoke matter-of-factly, but the truly disgusted expression he wore betrayed all his camouflages, "Nasty time for us, nasty time for you. I believe you remember the strange attacks, odd disasters, and desperate weathers from '96 to '98?"

The Prime Minister nodded. How could she forget? Rogue terrorists were murdering all over the country, and the fear eventually drove Prime Minister Major from his office. Then, suddenly, the attacks stopped, despite the lack of action from Blair - and so did Shacklebolt.

"Tom Riddle took offense in our society during those few years, and many of those tragedies were his work," supplied Finch-Fletchley, "He gathered a number of bigoted Muggle-haters, took power, and started killing your people for fun - the very thing we are trying to prevent. I think you'll admit you need cooperation, if not help."

"What cooperation? And what type of help are you speaking of?" demanded the Prime Minister, feeling belittled. After all, she was the Prime Minister, she was capable of running her own country.

"Presently, we are asking two favours from you," said Shacklebolt mildly, "The first is concerned of your own safety: we ask you to keep Mrs Abbott as your personal secretary, and that you keep Larry well and happy."

"What has my sec- oh," said the Prime Minister, "But what about Larry? He's just a cat!"

"He's a kneazle, or, in your words, an extremely intelligent cat who knows how and when to get help," said Potter in a oddly promising voice, "and Eugene is an Auror specifically trained for your safekeeping. Together, they will guarantee your personal safety from both muggle and magical offenders. I hope Eugene's work satisfy your need, Minister."

"She is a good worker, a very organised one," the Prime Minister agreed. Even just after hours of working together, she could sense it in the way she worked. Then, an idea flashed across her mind, "That was what you were doing those few years, weren't you?"

"Yes, Minister," answered Shacklebolt simply. He didn't seem to want to talk more about it.

"We should probably move on, Kingsley," reminded Finch-Fletchley, breaking the awkwardness that was spreading in the room.

"Indeed, Justin, thank you," said Shacklebolt, "The second favour I will ask, and the last favour for probably a long time, is to loosen up the number of immigrants."

The Prime Minister gaped at him incredulously, "What has that got to do with _your_ world?"

She must have shown much hostility and accusation, for Potter's hand reached under the table again, presumably gripping his 'magical stick'.

"We, like you, are experiencing problems in the Middle East," explained Shacklebolt patiently and compassionately, "The group that self-identified as the Islamic State is stirring trouble in both Muggle and Magical societies, and Magical Britain is resettling a large number of refugees, many of whom have Muggle relatives fleeing with them."

What was he going on about, thought the Prime Minister, is he saying that he's bringing terrorists - in both worlds - into their country, _her_ country?

Shacklebolt paced around the room and repositioned himself in front of her desk. He put his hands on the desk, and was now leaning forward, supporting his weight with his arms, "Harry has specialists researching the problem, and we the Magical Britain think it best not to fight, for we have evidence that the said terrorist organisations may be helping the Middle East fight for real human rights, and it is the best that their people sort it out with their leaders, like we did eighteen years ago."

"So, you are telling me, that you are secretly bringing in potential murderers from a dangerous place, yet refusing to eradicate the danger?" The Prime Minister straightened her back and narrowed her eyes; she had thought Shacklebolt to be a decent, responsible man!

"My dear lady, please calm down," said Shacklebolt, releasing his weight from her desk "Our people are bringing the families in, and we will be responsible for their resettlement. The Department of International Magical Cooperation is responsible for all the refugees, while the Department of Non-magical and Muggleborn Affairs provide specialised aid for non-magical and Muggleborn persons. We've been receiving dozens of families every year, increasing our population by almost 600 over the past twenty-four months, and it has proven to be a safe and effective way to stimulate our society. We plan on admitting more persons in need, and it is estimated that, by bringing in more fresh blood, we will prosper as a society with the population of 6,000 by 2020."

"Well, your population size is definitely the key to your success," said the Prime Minister coldly. She couldn't help but feel defensive at her own ideology, an ideology that she was certain was what her people wanted from the beginning, "I'm glad you have that problem under control."

"You and I don't need to agree," said Shacklebolt, "I am merely asking you to keep the people we are bringing in under your count, who, by the way, had made no trouble for you over the past years. We work closely with the Home Office, and there is no possible way for us to not register non-magical persons under your government."

The authority in Shacklebolt's voice was not to be mistaken, and the Prime Minister was again left speechless. She was, for a third time of the day, unable to process the presented information.

"I am not allowing terrorists into my country and murdering my citizens," she said at last, "Great Britain is _never_ a country built by immigrants, and it has no obligation in carrying someone else's broken load. The European Union might have forced some in us, but we are not taking anymore, and that will not be changed!"

"Indeed, Minister," said Shacklebolt, "Since we've got no more to discuss, I will take my men back to our offices."

Potter and Finch-Fletchley both stood up, and walked to the fireplace. Shacklebolt held up a bag for them, and Finch-Fletchley reached in. He then threw something into the fire and made it green, stepped in it, murmured a few indistinguishable words, and disappeared while turning around. When it was Potter's turn, the Prime Minister was sure that she saw a nod and a faint smile on his face, as if to encourage Shacklebolt to do something bold and noble. Then, he, too, disappeared in the fireplace. Now, Shacklebolt turned to look at her again.

"We'll manage either way, you know," he said, staring at her steadily in the eyes and repeating his employee's actions, "We just hope for your support."

He whispered "Minister's Office" and disappeared in a whirl. Still overwhelmed by the unexpected visit, the Prime Minister stared at the fire until it turned to the normal orange colour, while feeling slightly nauseous in her stomach.

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 **A/N: In this story, I have borrowed Northumbrian's idea of using the Home Office/Civil Servant disguise and Elizabeth May's take on dealing with the Syrian Civil War/Middle East problems. I do so because I can't think of a better disguise than that of Northumbrian, and Elizabeth has got a point in not bombing anyone and making it worse for everyone, not because I'm a cheater. The story itself, although sparkled by a post on facebook, is otherwise entirely original. I had intended more political satire and humour, but decided to follow JKR's lead and use mellower language to deliver the message. I hope you liked it.**


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